Sea Salt
by hikachu
Summary: They taste the salt of sweat on the other's lips: the proof of time that passes, of life that goes on even if they are not together. Post EP8; partially AU.
1. July, 8th 1987

**July, 8****th**** 1987**

The city is a jagged shadow, jet-black and deceptively compact against the sky. It is not too dark yet, but in those spots where the lingering sunlight is even weaker, windows already shimmer, bright, too bright and too big, like yellowish stars.

There is a faint noise in the back of Beatrice's mind: clang clang. It must come from some place far away, it doesn't concern me, she thinks but not in so many words. Clang, clang. It's closer now, and she's suddenly aware of the wooden surface beneath her cheek, of how hard it is and the dull pain in her jaw.

Her dreams vanish, she will never remember them, and there's only the back of her eyelids left: a dark and lonely dimension that she leaves by opening her eyes. The dim evening world almost blinds her for a moment or two.

The neighbors' dog is barking again, like this morning right after breakfast, except it is not muffled now: someone must have opened the door.

Someone.

Her lips move, lazy, around the syllables, as if trying to remember their meaning, and a second later Beatrice's eyes widen and she jumps to her feet.

"Battler!" she runs, almost trips. "Battler!"

And he is there, with a plastic bag in hand. Behind him, Beato can see the soles of his sneakers glistening like the white belly of a fish: he must have kicked off his shoes again. Like a kid.

Battler is smiling at her. "I'm home."

Beato remains perfectly still for a moment before skipping forward to wrap her arms around him. Battler's back and her elbows collide painfully with the door.

"Welcome back," she says, ignoring the ache, and looks up at him as if expecting something. He blinks. She keeps staring.

Then Battler grins and bends down to kiss her. It's brief but the hunger is there, and it is evident in the way their mouths seek each other and their hands cling to clothes, hair, jaws.

They taste the salt of sweat on the other's lips: the proof of time that passes, of life that goes on even if they are not together.

[What kind of person are you when I'm not here?]

It's the stinging flavor of moments forever lost.

[How many sides of 'you' are there that I will never get to know?]

"I…" Battler's breathing heavily. He leans down for another kiss – just a quick peck this time – before he tries to speak again. "I got curry for dinner…"

"Mu, not again!" Beato looks like a child who's just been denied her favorite treat, but kisses him back nonetheless. "I wanted to eat meat–!"

He pats her head. "Meat is expensive, and we already had that a few days ago. Besides, tonight I'm too tired to make anything but curry. Sorry."

Beatrice tilts her head and looks down, trying to decide whether to forgive him or not.

Cute, Battler thinks and almost kisses her again.

"Okay," she concedes, finally.

Their hands meet and it would be impossible to know who initiated it. Their expressions don't change.

Right now, the gesture is no different from breathing. Automatic. Unnoticeable. Necessary.

Battler lets his shoulder bag fall to the floor as they walk to the kitchen. As usual, he has forgotten to zip it up properly, and text books spill from it, sliding on top of each other and onto the floor with ease, like something wet and viscid. Like algae thrown against sleek rocks by the waves.

A pen rolls off to the genkan. It stops against his shoes, still laying there in disarray.

"Hm, I guess we could mix in some pork though—if there's any left," he suggests after a while, observing Beato's reaction from the corner of his eye, waiting for that surge of childish enthusiasm that he knows will come and warm his heart.

It's a secret, more or less, but Battler actually likes to spoil her whenever he can.

And when the promised smile surfaces, he laughs too.

* * *

In the kitchen, the noises are the same as everyday: tableware on wood, something sizzling on the stove. Battler's voice as he recounts something funny that happened during class. Beatrice's questions.

Her whiny 'Baaattleeer' when, after dinner, she finds out that they've run out of ice-cream.

"So, no dessert tonight. Damn." He loves sweets as much as she does and is equally disappointed. "Oh, wait. There is _something_ after all…"

Beatrice looks like some small animal as she watches, absorbedly, Battler open the fridge again.

"But it's strawberries!" she protests.

"I thought you liked strawberries."

"Yes, but fruit doesn't count as dessert."

"What about the strawberry shortcakes and cherry jam you loved so much?" he asks, chuckles, and pours sugar onto the now cut fruit.

"… Hmph."

My victory, Battler thinks.

"You'll like it. My mother used to make this all the time in summer, because it was the only way to get me to eat fruit instead of candy."

Beato keeps staring at him, although in a different way. She's oddly quiet, now. He understands and keeps talking of a part of himself that she would have never known otherwise.

Battler's voice is warm. Beato believes she could fall asleep like this and have the most pleasant dreams.

* * *

"Well? How's it, o selfish queen?"

Beato scowls, swallows the last bit of fruit in her mouth and then looks away. "Not bad." Her cheeks are slightly rosier than normal: she hates losing.

"Ihihi. You should try being honest for once."

The sugar has melted into the strawberry juice, which is refreshing and enjoyably bittersweet by now.

And also sticky, as Beato finds out when some of it spills onto her hand.

Paper napkins only seem to make the situation worse.

Battler is watching the scene with a strangely blank expression.

"Look," she pouts. "It won't come off."

He takes her hand into his. The strawberry juice looks even redder on her white skin. Like fresh, slightly diluted blood.

The tips of her fingers are sticky against his cheek.

"Battler…?"

They are sweet and salty at once inside his mouth.

Beatrice whimpers at the feeling of teeth grazing her skin. Gentle and yet so, so hungry. As if searching for something secret and beautiful.

She feels so lost.

"I… ah, I thought… you said… weren't you too tired…"

"Not for this." Not for you, he doesn't say, never for you.

The floor is hard under her back, but Beato welcomes its cool touch in this stagnant summer evening.

"Ah…" she sighs; her voice starts to break. "Pervert."

"I don't want to hear that from you," he mutters.

Their movements are dictated by a decadent sort of laziness: sticky like sugary juice and hot like summer. Like letting yourself sink to the bottom of the sea.

Battler's hands sneak under her dress and she is suffocating.

Surely, surely, little by little, this person will end up killing her one day. But it's alright.

He's always devouring her in such a loving way after all.

Then Battler calls her name and Beato thinks, this must be happiness.


	2. July, 9th 1987

**July, 9****th**** 1987**

Battler is sleepy. The silence around him is too perfect. It's surreal.

There isn't anybody in the car besides him, a bunch of high school students returning home and an old lady with her grocery bags. The sky is blood-red – like the strawberries from yesterday – and most salarymen and office ladies are still at work, after all.

Battler is quite sure that his back is drenched in sweat. He shifts a little and grimaces at the feeling of the thin cotton shirt clinging to his spine and shoulder blades.

For some reason, the train is going at a snail's pace today.

Or perhaps it's simply the way home that's gotten longer while he was attending some boring lecture or another.

Hurry, hurry, Battler almost hisses. He thinks of Beato and their bed and a cold shower, and can't wait to be home.

It's not like him to be this tired, this lazy. He wonders: did I turn into an old man without even noticing, and frowns in a way that would make Beato giggle like the girls sitting across from him.

They're reading from the same teen magazine, each using one hand to keep it open and up between the two of them. It looks a bit like a giant butterfly pinned to a corkboard. Their hair is reddish under the dying sun. Battler throws a glance at them and his eyes linger on their uniforms.

It's only been a few months since the last time he had to wear one himself, yet he feels so different from the person he used to be during those day. Almost like a grown-up.

Or, rather, the truth is that he had already changed before the graduation ceremony.

And before the university entrance exams. Before the new year began. Before Christmas. Before her birthday.

Before—

The train enters a tunnel and everything becomes noise. The passengers jump, startled.

Battler takes a deep breath: the air is cool here, and for the first time since dawn, he feels awake.

* * *

When he steps off the train, there is something out of place in the scene before him.

"… Beato?"

She waves at him, eager, lively, shining, and he runs to her.

"You're late!"

"No, I'm not," and he checks his wristwatch for good measure anyway. Then he remembers. "What are you doing here?"

Beatrice looks away.

"You're so stupid, you'd surely end up forgetting the ice-cream, without me there to remind you."

"I wrote it down on the list."

"You'd still get the wrong flavor."

"You eat so much ice-cream that there should seriously be something wrong with my brain, for me to forget your favorites."

"A, are you saying that I eat too much?"

Battler laughs.

The bickering continues as they walk to the convenience store.

He knows what she actually meant: I missed you.

* * *

"Cookie dough! Cookie dough! I want cookie dough!"

"Eh? Didn't you just get something else? What about me then: don't I get to pick a flavor for myself?"

Beato's eyes widen. "Oh," her cheekbones turn pink. "Well. Okay. But it's just because I'm feeling generous! It's not like you deserve it anyway."

"Yeah, yeah, thank you."

"Y-You could at least try to make it sound like you mean it!"

"Ihihi, but why? You're pretty cute when you get all angry and flustered like thi—_ouch_!"

* * *

On the way home, Battler notices that the people around them look all the same: age, gender, features, everything disappears under the setting sun and its violent colors.

There aren't people here. Trees and cars and this street don't exist. The world is nothing more than orange, red, black and a bunch of white spots.

Only Beatrice is real and stands out with her summer dress and clammy hand into his as they carry together the plastic bag with her precious ice-cream.

* * *

The house is overall pretty average: it isn't small, but it definitely isn't large either. It was built, after all, to accommodate a simple lower middle class family of three people.

However, the living room is still spacious enough to make the heat a little bit more bearable.

Battler lets himself fall with his head on Beato's lap and thinks that he should buy a new fan with the next paycheck.

They're sitting on the floor because sitting on the couch when it's so hot would be suicide. There are textbooks sprawled all over the coffee table.

"Ahh, I can't take this anymore."

Beatrice looks up from the novel she's reading and pokes his forehead. "What?"

"College," he sighs and slaps her hand away but she is stubborn, and pinches his nose instead. "Hey, hey! Give it a rest, alright?"

"Kyahahaha!" she laughs at how funny his voice sounds, like this.

"Why don't you act your age for once…"

Battler turns around and she can feel his breath on her skin. Hot and moist. After a while it becomes almost unbearable; the fabric of her dress sticking to her flesh. But, Beatrice loves being this close to him.

"I've always hated studying." Battler complains and rubs his face against her thigh. The gesture reminds her of a lonely kid seeking comfort from his favorite stuffed animal. "A teacher even slapped me, once."

He hums contentedly as she scratches the nape of his neck.

"You could just skip school tomorrow and rest." Beato doesn't like being alone during the day and it's written all over her face. Battler knows even if he can't see her right now.

"I can't."

"Mu…"

"Stop pouting like a kid."

"I-I'm not!"

"I know you are," and it's true and, grinning, Battler bites her through the thin cloth of her dress.

"H, Hey…!" her hands grab his hair instinctively to push him away, although in the end she doesn't.

Beato is chuckling.

Her novel is on the floor.

He bites again. It hurts, she says, stop. But they're both laughing.

Then the phone in the hallway rings.

"… I'll get it."

Battlers stands up and sways a little, feeling dizzy. The sunlight that floods the lobby makes his eyes burn.

"Hello?"

It's a kid's voice that answers him: "Onii-chan?"

"Ange…!" he's glad it's her. It's been at least two weeks since they last spoke to each other.

His eyes are watering now, and he is forced to lower his head and stare at the wooden floor, which is a mishmash of gold and white under this light.

They chat for a bit, then he asks if she's getting along with aunt Eva.

"Hm-hm. And she said, we could have a big party for your birthday here. You can invite some of your friends too."

Battler finds that his gaze has landed on their shoes – his and Beato's – lined up together in front of the door. He thinks of their toothbrushes touching each other in the bathroom, of their clothes in the same closet and can't look away.

"Oh," he finally says after a while. "I… I don't know. I'll probably be busy with school."

It's a lie. School ends exactly on the day before his birthday. He can _feel_ Ange's disappointment before she can say anything.

"I'm sorry, but, hey!, I promise I'll come see you very soon, okay? And I'll bring you a wonderful present too."

Ange giggles. "Silly onii-chan. It's your birthday, not mine. You're the one who gets a present."

Battler scratches his head sheepishly as though as she can see him. "Right, right."

He feels guilty, he really does, but—

* * *

"Hey, I think I will skip school tomorrow, after all. So… let's do something fun together, okay?"

Beatrice nods and throws her arms around his neck. Her eyes are sparkling.

Battler holds her close, thinking that she smells like roses, and also like the sea breeze.

Ever since that day.


	3. October, 6th 1986

**October, 6****th**** 1986**

Battler shivers. The breeze is gentle but it claws at his skin through the thin shirt.

Battler shivers, because Beatrice's proximity makes his heart beat fast, and then faster and faster yet, to the point it becomes painful. Breathing hurts. His cheeks and the tips of his fingers tingle, itch, and he's sure they're red.

It's an unbearable warmth, something that envelops him so tightly and so lovingly and there is no doubt it will end up smothering him.

This horrible, lovely warmth mixed to the deceptive gentleness of the harsh sea breeze.

Without a doubt.

It is a sort of pain he can't help but love, after all, and Battler is lost when it leaves him suddenly, too soon (there is a voice in the back of his mind saying that, really, it would always be too soon for this sort of loss): he opens his eyes, searching, and the sky is so unnaturally clear that its bright shades of blue almost blind him.

And Beatrice is still there, but not for too long. [If he had opened his eyes one moment later he would have had to jump after her.]

He can tell, from the way her gaze is fixed on the sea, almost as blue as the sky, and the ingot she holds against her chest as if it were an infant.

Battler knows that she's going to disappear unless he does something about it. Because only the sea is reflected in her eyes right now.

The struggle doesn't last long: Beatrice is definitely weaker than him, after all. But she is also incredibly stubborn, and so they end up clawing at each other's hands for several minutes: red marks like thin ribbons and half-moons; they aren't deep but they sting and burn in the salty atmosphere of the sea. Both shouting accuses of selfishness at the other.

Then, in the end, Battler seizes her wrists and Beatrice hisses as he squeezes with enough strength to make her fingers relax around the ingot; it will probably leave bruises. Ugly bracelets of bluish fingerprints on her pretty skin.

The boat sways violently and almost turns upside down. The ingot finally falls.

Beatrice watches as it sinks, quietly, quickly, and stops shining so easily, devoured by the pitch-black world that is the ocean. She realizes that it could have been herself, her life, and while she hasn't lost her resolve on a rational level, her legs give out.

Battler falls on his knees with her. He still won't let go.

"You're hurting me," she mutters without looking up at him.

Her bun is half-undone. Their clothes are wet. Battler is shaking and she doesn't know, can't see that it's more out of fear than anger.

"I, I don't care!"

Beatrice winces.

He does release one of her wrists though, and for a moment they both believe he's going to slap her.

But the moment becomes two, then three, and nothing happens. Nothing can be heard except the seagulls crying.

"… I said it, didn't I? I… definitely said it," he wraps his arms around her so tightly she thinks that, soon, she won't be able to breathe anymore. "That we would be together forever…! So… if you do something stupid like that… I will have no choice but to follow you!"

There is something wrong with Battler's voice. A nuance – like something breaking – that shouldn't be there.

"Battler…"

"And I also said that if you've committed a sin, then that's my fault too! That we will bear it together!"

There is something trickling down her neck. It's hot.

"Are you going to let me bear it all on my own?"

She knows she isn't crying. Then—

"You…"

"I will do it, if you want me to, but there's no way I'm letting you go! I'm not giving you up to anyone—not even to the ocean!"

Beatrice can feel him swallowing his own sobs against her shoulder.

There is a selfish part of her that in the past would sometimes dream of simply keeping him there, in her Golden Land, for all eternity—

"Until the day we disappear," he whispers. "You are mine."

—and now that part of her rejoices and holds tightly onto him.

Her hands tremble as they grip his soaked shirt.

Battler inhales deeply and the scent of the sea overwhelms his senses: the fragrance of roses that naturally clings to Beato's skin seems gone. It's scary.

He is tired but he won't let go until the sea disappears from her eyes.


End file.
